Valley of Ashes
by ofhousestark
Summary: He was a simple man from a simple town with only one simple desire: to help save Skyrim from a corrupted empire. Maybe after that he'd settle down, have a family of his own, and live out his daily life with a hard, honest trade and a belly full of mead. Obviously, standing in the ashes of dragonfire with his sword pledged to the Dragonborn wasn't exactly part of Ralof's plan.
1. CHAPTER 1: Inferno

**Hello all! Thank you for taking the time to check out my little story here. I wanted to write a fanfic for Skyrim for a long time now, though I never really had that plot that perfectly stuck to me – until now. After all, who doesn't love our favourite rebel from Riverwood?**

 **This fic is going to be a take on the story through the eyes of Ralof. He will meet the Dragonborn and embark on a journey to save Skyrim – and maybe have a few misadventures here and there, maybe even fall in love...**

 **P.S: Please note that the first two chapters will be a little slow as the scene is set, but the story _will_ pick up in later chapters, please stay tuned!**

 **Without further ado, here is chapter one!**

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 **CHAPTER ONE:** _ **Inferno**_

 _Oh good._ _She's not dead_.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

My voice sounds almost relieved. I'd never once spoken to her since the encounter at Darkwater Crossing, nor do I really feel that concerned about her fate when my own hangs very low in the balance. In fact, it probably would've been better if she had met her end sooner rather than later, considering what fate we were most likely to face.

But with the Jarl himself unable to talk even if he wanted to, and the man on my left moping and groaning like it would help him, I want nothing more than someone interesting to talk to in these moments which would, most likely, be my last.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" I ask when she finally lifts her head enough to glance at me, tired eyes peering from under a ragged hood. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She seems to be hearing but not listening, and she barely throws the thief a glance before turning her head to examine the road ahead.

 _So much for someone interesting to talk to._

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief mutters instead, and I frown, turning from the woman to look at him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell."

I suppose there's something to be admired in blatant honesty, even if the man is lacking in more than just decent character.

"You there," he suddenly says; and he's talking to the woman, who reluctantly looks back at the thief. "You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

I hold back the sharp words at the tip of my tongue. Not worth it. Would it even matter who we were once we arrived at wherever we were going?

But the woman just stares at him for another few seconds before returning her gaze back to the road. That gives me some feeling of triumph. I'm still not sure if she's mysterious or just plain boring, but at least now I'm not the only one being ignored by our female companion. Well, apart from poor Jarl Ulfric, who doesn't really have a choice.

Breathing a sigh, I look down at my hands, dirty and bloody and bound together tight. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The soldier driving our carriage snaps at us to shut up, and surprisingly, it's the woman who glares daggers into the back of his head. I wonder what her thoughts on all of this were. If she has any; she doesn't seem to be keen on voicing them.

"And what's wrong with him?"

A surge of indignation rises up in my throat. No one speaks to our leader that way. "Watch your tongue!" I warn the thief, hearing something akin to a snarl in my voice. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion."

As if on cue, all three of us now had our gazes upon the man. It was a bitter situation, this. I had joined this rebellion because I believed in it. I felt it with all my heart. I wanted to go to war for it, even if I was to meet death at the end. Now it had come to an end, and I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to die by a well-organised execution. I wanted to die on the battlefield, with a sword in my hand and blood in my mouth.

And here is the man himself, the one who had started it all; bound at the hands and mouth, so powerful that even his voice was a feared weapon. His posture is slouched but his eyes have not lost their fire, and idly, I contemplate the fate of such a legend as Ulfric. War hero. Jarl of Eastmarch. Rebellion leader. Master of the Voice. He would die, but his legend would not die with him. What can I say about myself? How will I be remembered?

"But if they captured you..." Realisation dawns upon the thief's face, his expression flooding with terror. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ulfric has his head bowed, eyes closed. I avert my eyes from the panicked thief and consequently find those of the woman, gray irises staring right back at me. "I don't know where we're going," I speak softly, not quite able to break eye contact with the strange prisoner in front of me, "but Sovngarde awaits."

I think I see the faintest nod of her head before she redirects her focus to the structures appearing in the distance, but maybe it had just been the shaky bounce of the carriage rolling over the rocky path. I glance back at the thief, almost taking a bit of pity on him. For Ulfric and I, death is only the gateway to a better place. For him... his expression speaks only of hopelessness. I ask him where he was from, and he responds first with a scowl.

"Why do you care?"

Sighing, I drop my head, looking at my boots. For all my absence and reluctance to visit Riverwood, it was interesting how much I suddenly longed to see it again. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

The man's expression softens, and suddenly he looks so young, lost; helpless. I wonder what had given him cause to become a thief in the first place. "Rorikstead..." he murmurs, his voice forlorn, "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

Before I could try my luck asking the same question of the woman, the sounds of shouting voices and distant conversation have me lifting my head to look up, realising where we were. The exchange between the general and a soldier told me exactly what was soon to happen here, and fear seemed like a distant memory, nothing but anger sitting in place of it. I barely hear the thief's pleas to the gods for help, too busy glaring at the group gathered in the near distance.

"Look at him," I huff, shaking my head in distaste. "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Out the corner of my eye, I see the woman straighten and crane her neck a bit to get a glance at what I had mentioned, her eyes focused on the general and his entourage. A light frown twitches at her brow, and then she sits back down beside Ulfric, her gaze alternating among the many Imperial soldiers scattered about the town centre.

"This is Helgen," I say to no one in particular. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." A bout of nostalgia grips around my heart, and I frown against it. "Funny... when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Funny how old forgotten memories become so vivid when you're about to face death.

The thief is, as usual, on the edge of hysteria. "Why are they stopping?"

Indeed the carriage stops, much like my heart does a moment later. _This is it_. "Why do you think? End of the line." There isn't any real fear in my heart, of course – but there _is_ regret. I wish I'd done more. Experienced more. Lived more.

I look at the woman in front of me, but her face is unreadable. I wish I knew what she was feeling. Is she truly as calm as she appears, or is she merely hiding her fear behind a blank expression? "Let's go," I say, standing up. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!"

 _Have you no spine at all?_

"Face your death with some _courage_ , thief." I don't bother to pay further heed to his words, stepping off the carriage and somewhat regretful I can't help the woman down, though she does just fine jumping off on her own. Standing, she's smaller than I thought, though not frail. She's more a girl than a woman.

The Imperial soldier orders us to move toward the chopping block upon having our names called, where a rather ominous-looking headsman awaits. My eyes are, however, fixed on the soldier. _Hadvar._ A man I used to know - or I thought I knew, at least. I didn't look him in the eye. "Empire loves their damn lists," I mutter, and the woman beside me grunts. That's the most I've heard out of her all day.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

As I tell him it has been an honour to have known him, I wish at least he could be spared. That he, the leader, could carry on the fight. It's a ridiculous thought, of course. He is the entire reason for this gathering. The Imperials would sooner free all of us in order to keep Ulfric than release the man alone; the single biggest threat to the Empire.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

 _Ralof of Riverwood_. Maybe that's my only legacy. Ralof of Riverwood, Stormcloak rebel. I suppose that's not so bad.

I can feel Hadvar watching me as I walk past, but I don't spare a second glance. We may not have been kin, but that doesn't make his role in this execution any less traitorous.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel!" the thief cries. "You can't _do_ this!"

Clearly devoid of all sanity, Lokir breaks from the line and begins to sprint as fast as he can up the road from where we came, hands bound and steps unsteady. His last words claim that he will not be killed by the Imperials, right before he is killed by the Imperials. The captain, a stern woman of short stature, demands to know if anyone else feels like running.

My gaze leaves the captain and falls upon the woman instead, the last to have her name called – except her name is never called. Hadvar asks her who she is, and I realise she isn't on the list. This is, oddly, a relief. At least one of us will leave here alive.

"Irma."

I finally learn her name. A simple name. _Irma._

And yet there's nothing else to go with it. No clan name, title, not even her town of origin. Nothing.

Hadvar waits for a moment for her to continue, but she doesn't. "Irma who?"

"Irma."

"Well... very well." Hadvar scribbles her name onto the parchment. "You picked a bad time to come back home to Skyrim, kinsman." He then turns to the captain, asking what they should do with her since she's not on the list – and then I get a proper shock upon hearing the reply.

"Forget the list. She goes to the block."

 _What?_

To her credit, she barely reacts, perhaps but a slight widening of her eyes; and she obeys her orders, the gentle words of Hadvar left behind as she steps into line beside me. Tullius' voice rambles in the background, but I'm focused on Irma as her gaze travels to where Lokir lies dead with a back full of arrows. Then she turns to me; her eyes always unreadable. _Injustice_ , I think as I stare at her. _Sentenced to death for nothing but being at the wrong place at the wrong time._

"Are you afraid?" I dare to ask, my voice low and quiet.

For a moment, Irma shows no sign that she will respond, but then her lips press together, as if gathering her courage; and she finally shakes her head. I feel a faint smile on my lips, but the moment is crushed by a distant echo, a strange sound that seems to confuse everyone. Hadvar voices his concern, but the general demands they carry on. A distraction would only benefit us, I think bemusedly.

Turning back to face forward, I listen as the priestess recites her tired old lines. Maybe Arkay is the only god really paying us any attention right now. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved–"

"For the love of Talos," a gruff voice snaps; " _shut up_ and let's get this over with."

I can't stop myself from grinning when she's interrupted. Jorrgar has never been the most reverent of men, but he's always been among the most honourable.

"As you wish," the priestess resigns rather haughtily.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," Jorrgar says with a voice full of pride, full of hope. A man eager for Sovngarde. "Can you say the same?"

The axe meets the block with a metallic clang and the sound of severed flesh, but along with it I also hear a soft gasp from beside me. And though Irma's expression does not betray, I can see the tautness of her brow, the quick blink of her lashes. It isn't fear. It's sorrow.

"As fearless in death," I say, voice unhindered this time as I make it a point to stare at Jorrgar's limp body as it's pushed to the ground; "as he was in life."

"Next," the captain yells; "the Nord in the hood!"

 _Wait –_

I don't know this girl. I barely just learnt her name. I have no idea what her beliefs are, or what her past contains. I have never even partaken in a single line of conversation with her.

And yet here I am, Julianos help me, filled with more dread at the thought of her dying than for my own death. Worse, it fills my head with bad ideas about how to put a stop to it –

Another menacing sound breaks through my train of thought, focuses my gaze toward the skies. _That sound again._

"There it is again," Hadvar says again, anxious as he turned to the captain. "Did you hear that?"

It seemed to have come from the mountains, but then what explanation does that have?

"I said, _next prisoner!_ "

What a pleasure it would be to simply stroll over to the small-faced wench and stretch her neck over the block instead. But, as nice as it was to entertain such thoughts, there were worse fates than a quick death by beheading. Not to mention my inability to do anything with my hands still bound, as much as I wanted to stop the murder of an innocent woman. How did the Imperials believe they were delivering justice to Ulfric, a so-called murderer, if they would not give justice to a girl without a sin tainting her name?

Irma, however, walks to the block as easily as if she was going to collect a pardon, and I can respect that. The captain yanks at her hood roughly to pull it off her head, and by the slight flinch in Irma's expression, I can tell the woman managed to grab a fair amount of hair, as well. She's forced down, her head resting on the block, face turned away from the rest of us, and I think that maybe I'm grateful not to have to see her face when the axe comes down.

Something interrupts it before it has the chance, and this time it's not just a strange sound from the mountains.

"What in _Oblivion_ is _that_?" I hear Tullius shout in horror, the captain asking what the sentries see – in the meantime, I'm speechless, and I can't move.

I see it – a giant, black, winged creature, hovering over the town until it lands atop a tower, the ground shaking under the sudden weight drop; and me? I can't move. I can't do anything but stand there, mouth open. But then it opens its mouth too, and the roar throws us all back. It's only when I catch myself mid-stumble to avoid from sprawling to the floor that I snap out of it. If I had thought before that the gods didn't care about us, this had definitely changed my mind.

One more shot, one more chance. One chance and so many possibilities – and I knew exactly what the first thing I wanted to do was.

I find her fallen beside the block, dazed by the creature's shout; though she had got out lucky. The headsman looked to have died instantly.

"Hey!" I shout, nudging her in my inability to grab her. "Get up! _Come on_ , the gods won't give us another chance!"

She stares up at me, the trance breaking and she pushes herself to her feet with a groan. There's no time for her to regain her balance as I run toward the tower, her steps audible right behind me, and once the door is shut I immediately ask for something to cut my binds with, which Ulfric readily provides. "Jarl Ulfric, what _is_ that thing? Could the legends be true?" They couldn't be. Dragons had been dead for years. But what else could it have been?

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric replies, his brow drawn tight and his eyes distant in thought. For a moment I look around in panic, realising I hadn't seen Irma run inside with me, but she's braced against the wall behind me, sitting on the steps, catching her breath and blinking her eyes rapidly as if there was something stuck in them.

Finally, Ulfric looks up, straight at me, and I notice that familiar determination in his eyes, that fire that had never gone out since the ambush. "We need to move, _now!_ "

I turn to Irma immediately, grabbing her arm and pulling her up to her feet, and she stands without complaint. "Up through the tower," I gesture hastily, pointing to the top of the staircase and nudging her by the small of her back. "Let's go, move!"

Following after her quickly, my heart pounds, my mind asking a dozen questions every second that passes by, but the most prominent is _how are we ever going to escape this place?_ Even when we reach the top of the tower, then what? We'll only be in the direct sight of the 'enemy'.

As if to bring me back to reality, however, the tower window and the wall around it crumbles with a deafening _bang_ , the Stormcloak right beside it falling down with a yell.

"Get back!" I bellow, and Irma does, except its more that she falls back than steps; straight into my arms. To my horror, I witness the magnificent black snout of the dragon appearing before us, though it pauses only to unleash a wave of fire upon the soldier at the ruins of the window, before it departs, leaving only wisps of flame and a charred corpse behind.

My entire body is screaming with fear-induced adrenaline, and I can feel the shock in Irma, too; shaking in my arms, her breath coming in heavy gasps, scratching up through her throat. With the immediate danger gone, I know that this is no time to take a break, and I quickly push her forward, up the last three steps to the hole in the wall. "See the inn on the other side?" I shout over the noise, and she nods quickly, head whipping to look at me expectantly, waiting for my instruction. "Jump through the roof and keep going!"

She hesitates, and I push her toward the window again, before heading back down the stairs to help our wounded men. "Go!" I yell. "We'll follow you when we can!"

As I watch Irma leap down into the ruins, my only hope is that the next time I see her, it's not in Sovngarde.

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 **Reviews are adored!**


	2. CHAPTER 2: Exodus

**Thank you for the follows! I really hope I won't disappoint.**

 **So far I have an outline of the plot planned out, though of course everything is subject to change, even according to reviewer opinion. Updates should be frequent.**

 **Thanks again for reading!**

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 **CHAPTER 2: _Exodus_**

In retrospect, my childhood hadn't been as bad as I'd thought it was as a young boy. Sure, my father had been busy most of the time, but he'd always included me in his work. My sister and I had always been close, and though I always played the protector, she'd been there for me just as prominently when I needed her. And then there was Hadvar, a boy my age – my best friend.

I recalled so easily the games we'd play – of course, they were always fighting games, and we'd fashion ourselves grand Imperial soldiers, protecting Skyrim from evil. How much fun we always had, even during the many silly fights we'd had over who got to be Tiber Septim in each game...

How had it ended up like this?

"Ralof!" Hadvar yells, sword glimmering with the reflection of the flames around us. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

 _Traitor_. As if he wasn't the very embodiment of that word himself.

Already in stance; I draw my axe, ready to fight him if it would come to it. "We're escaping, Hadvar," I say firmly, ensuring there's no doubt about the fact. "You're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Though his words cut deep, a part of me can't help but think he can't really mean that. But there's no time to dwell on a friendship long lost – a small figure appears running in the short distance behind Hadvar, and I immediately move toward her.

"Irma!" I call, and she slows her pace when she spots me. "Come with me, into the keep!"

She's quick to respond, and I throw a final glance to Hadvar, who breaks eye contact and escapes into the neighbouring tower. I open the door to the keep, making sure Irma's in before I close the door behind us, finally releasing the breath I hadn't even known I'd been holding in a rush.

"Here, let me get those off for you."

When she fixes me with a lost look, I lift her wrists for her, hooking one of the loops with the tip of my axe and jerking it abruptly, slicing through the cord easily. She shakes the rest off easily and nods appreciatively; looks like she might say something, but then her expression changes over something behind me.

I sigh when I finally see him too; Gunjar slumped on the floor near the opposite wall. I walk toward him gingerly, crouching to check whether there's any chance he might've survived, but battle seldom allows such luck. "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," I whisper, before picking up his fallen weapon. Irma appears beside me, her eyes on Gunjar, and I hand her the weapon before she has time to dwell on it.

"Glad you're alright," I murmur, and I'm not sure whether to be happy we're alive or depressed that only two of us survived. "Looks like we're the only ones who made it." It still seems unfair. Our execution gets interrupted, yet only two of us get out alive in the end, anyway? I hold myself back from questioning the gods again. We need all the divine intervention we can get right now, and yelling at said divines is not likely to gain their favour.

"There could be others," Irma suddenly says, and it kind of throws me off. I hadn't expected her to reply, or even speak to me at all. "Elsewhere."

"You're right," I nod. "But... that thing. That thing was a dragon. No doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends." A shiver runs down my spine. As children, those stories were so exciting and dragons sounded so cool to us. Now it felt like I was living a nightmare. "The harbingers of the End Times."

Irma bit her lip at that, clearly feeling no more at ease than I was. Then she glanced up as a light rain of dust fell from the ceiling, accentuating the fact that we weren't safe here.

"Guess we'd better get moving. I'll check this gate, you check that one. Maybe one of them is our way out of here."

"Locked," she calls back from her gate, and as I try to open the other one, I find myself with the same answer. "Damn. No way to open this from our side." I give the gate a smack with the base of my palm, grunting in irritation. We didn't come this far just to perish inside a crumbling building.

"Shh, quiet!" Irma suddenly says, and I freeze on the spot. "Do you hear that?"

I stay silent for a moment and sure enough, voices with that familiar Imperial accent can be heard down the hall behind Irma's gate. "Imperials!" I hiss, running over to her quickly and hiding behind the right wall, directing her to the other side. "Take cover!"

The steps grow louder, and Irma shrinks back further from the edge of the gate. My hand tightens around the haft of the axe, and I control my breathing. _Everything_ echoes in here.

We hear a female order, "get this gate open."

My eyes fly wide open and Irma's reaction is the same, except they narrow less than a heartbeat later, the voice undoubtedly bringing back a particular grudge. And maybe it's just my imagination, but her posture seems a lot more battle-ready than it had before.

The gate swings open and the captain is the first to step through, but I barely get a chance to move before Irma attacks the captain, knocks her down good and hard, and fights to get her axe at her throat. I'm a little shocked. I figured she would know the basics of using a weapon, but I'd never really... well, expected this.

I don't get a free viewing, however, as the soldier that had come with the captain steps through the gate and engages me immediately. I only just manage to lunge out of the way as he swings with a grunt, the blade just short of slicing my chest, instead cutting the blue sash of my uniform, almost clean off. I get back into stance, instinct guiding me mostly as I step back to avoid another slash, aimed at my neck this time, and as his body absorbs the momentum of his swing, I take a chance and hurl my axe at him. It isn't a perfect throw, but the blade ends up embedded in the left side of his chest anyway, and he goes down with a choke, wide-eyed until he falls down dead – pleasantly, on his back and not forward, onto the axe. That might've been messy.

As I press his chest down with my boot and pull my axe out of it, I notice Irma standing up too, her already-dirty face speckled with red and frowning, chest heaving with exertion, her axe bloody as well as the hand she holds it in. Well.

"Good work," I state, and she glances over at me, looking as if I hadn't just spoken, then holds up a key. I open my mouth in surprise, then I figure instructions are better than compliments at the moment. I point to the opposite gate, undoubtedly where the captain and soldier had been hoping to get to. "Let's try it on that gate, bet that's where these Imperials were headed."

She seems to respond better to me when I'm talking business, as she immediately hurries over to the gate on my prompt and tries the key. Once again I wonder what her story is, though I'm a little uncertain I want to know now that I've seen her happily slice someone's throat open without a second thought.

The gate swinging open with a screech brings me out of my thoughts, and Irma is standing there, waiting for me. "Great," I say in relief as I motion for her to go through first. "Come on, let's get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads."

I follow her down the hall, and we're both in a jog, the distant sounds of destruction above not lost on us. If we don't die in fire, it's likely we could die here by –

"Look out!" I shout, and grab Irma's shoulder before she can run any further, pulling her backward. In the process I end up gracefully falling down and she tumbles backward onto me in turn, but it's lucky. A few seconds too late and she'd have been crushed by rock and rubble. Her head turns abruptly, and I can hear her quick breathing as she whispers a thank you and gets back up onto her feet. I dust myself off and get closer to the blocked hallway, though the rising dust makes it almost impossible to breathe. It's entirely cut off for certain. "Damn," I mutter, thinking twice about moving any of the rocks lest it have a chain reaction. "That dragon doesn't give up easy."

"This way," Irma says, opening the door to our left. I'm not sure how far this passage will get us, but I know as well as she does that this is our only choice.

There are others down here, however, and Irma's steps fall into a slow pace, her arm extended toward me in signal to tread carefully. I recognise the voices to belong to more Imperials, and when Irma glances back at me, I give an affirmative nod. Both of us burst into the room, and the Imperials scramble to meet us with swords extended. I don't get much of a fighting chance though, in a different way than you'd assume.

I'm left feeling somewhat dumbstruck when Irma, ever the anomaly, blocks the blow of the first Imperial, cuts into the arm of the second with her axe, then returns to clash her blade with the first's before knocking him down with a kick to the gut which looked stronger than I'd thought her capable of. This seems to be my cue to enter since her focus switches over from the fallen soldier to the one still left standing. As the soldier gets back onto his feet, I step into the fight and give my axe a swing, which is poorly deflected and leaves me with an easy kill.

My gaze is on Irma as she wipes fresh blood from her cheek, and I know she is aware of my stare but she ignores it entirely, pretending to be busy with searching for items.

"What was that?"

"This is a storeroom," she replies instead, "we should collect supplies." And while it's lovely to have her talking more than a word at a time, I'm more interested in where she learned her technique, not obvious fact statements.

I step right into her space, and when she doesn't stop looting the shelves like a madwoman, I block them with my arm. (I feel I must explain that my arms are fairly thick, no boasting intended.) Irma sighs heavily and regards me with good measure of visible exasperation. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" I inquire, and she squirms, noticeably uncomfortable. "That was proper close-range technique right there, and you don't learn that by play fighting with brothers."

"I learned like any other warrior learns," she replies brusquely. "Lessons and practice."

It's a fair explanation, one that leaves any further questioning to seem like excessive interest; and I don't want to invade her personal life. I am, after all, a gentleman – or at least, I try to be.

"Let's get going," I finally say, and her impatience is palpable. She gives me an expectant look, complete with raised eyebrows, and I slowly lower my arm to let her continue to rummage along the shelves and through the drawers. "Look for potions, we'll need them," I add as I move to search the barrels.

Moving into a stairwell, I hear more voices at the bottom of the stairs, most likely Imperials again. With a shushing motion, I carefully step down near the bottom of the stairs, daring a glance inside before turning back to Irma, who looks to be waiting a visual report. "Troll's blood!" I whisper. "It's a torture room."

Aversion contorts Irma's face. When we enter the room to fight, we find not just torturers, but a fellow Stormcloak. "Myrta!" I call as I grab the man attacking her, pulling him away, and her face lights up with the same relief my voice contains.

"Ralof!" she exclaims, her happy tone of voice odd in contrast with the blade she pushes into the torturer's chest, right before I throw his limp body aside. "You're alive!"

"Barely." I glance over at a suspicious-looking Irma, who joins us after she's handled the other torturer. "Irma, this is Myrta. Don't worry, she's a Stormcloak, she's with us."

Myrta greets Irma with a nod, but Irma only regards her for a moment before glancing briefly at me to speak. "Okay. I'm going to see what I can find around here," and then she goes to do just that.

I clear my throat, addressing Myrta once more even as I keep track of Irma's activities. "Is Jarl Ulfric with you?"

"No," Myrta answers, her brow creased. "I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up."

"Alright... what about any of our other men?"

"None that I've encountered thus far."

Irma's loading a knapsack with items from the room as well as those she'd been carrying from the storeroom, and then she makes toward the next room, pausing to wait for us.

"We'd best get moving then," I say, and Myrta agrees, following as I head over to Irma.

We make our way down another set of stairs until we arrive at the mouth of a cave, and Irma stops in her tracks. Myrta and I pause as well, immediately hearing the talking within.

"The orders are to wait until General Tullius arrives."

"I'm not waiting to be killed by a dragon!"

If nothing else, the multitude of Imperials on our route was at least a good sign that we weren't heading into a dead end. We're confronted with three Imperial soldiers, but with Myrta on our side now, it's an even battlefield. The soldiers aren't much of a fight, probably reckless in the panic induced by the dragon attack, and we press on after picking up their fallen arrows (and maybe a few of the septims in their pockets). There's an opening at the other side of the area, but it seems to delve further down into the cave.

"Let's go on ahead," I say, "see if the way is clear."

But when I look to my side, I only see Irma. I look back, where Myrta is collecting supplies from the soldiers' bodies. "Myrta, come on, we need to go!"

"Go on!" she calls without looking up. "I'll be right on your tail."

I exhale uncertainly, glancing at Irma who is waiting for me to make up my mind, before pressing on. "Let's see where this goes."

We walk through the passage way, where a lever sits in front of a risen drawbridge. Irma pulls it, lowering the bridge so we can get across, though a familiar crumbling sound has us quickening our pace – and now I truly, truly believe the gods are smiling down on us today, because no sooner do I step off the bridge that a boulder falls, crushing the bridge, followed by a shower of rocks and earth that fill up the passage, allowing no return.

The look on Irma's face tells me she's thinking the same thing I am. I swallow. _That's just the way it is_ , I try to tell myself before walking past her, heading down the path on the right. "No going back that way," I remark, as if it weren't obvious. "We'd better push on... Myrta will just have to find another way out."

Irma, unsurprisingly, stays silent as she follows me down along the stream. We hit a dead end once we're in the tunnel, but there's another passageway, which Irma leads the way into. I am just about to revel in how brave she is before she stumbles backward with a shriek, almost smacking into me, her fingers curled in disgust in response to whatever lies ahead. I step in front of her, glancing back at her somewhat worriedly – she hasn't had cause to react this way since I'd met her, so what could've possibly scared her this bad?

 _Frostbite spiders._

I almost laughed out loud as I hung my axe on my swordbelt, equipping my bow instead and going on ahead to kill them myself. From a distance, they posed little threat, and once I had killed the three smaller ones and planted an arrow in the large one, it wasn't too difficult to finish the creature off with the axe to save the fair damsel in distress. I turned back to Irma, who was finally making her way into the cavern slowly, cautious and looking a little embarrassed.

Of course this brave girl would be afraid of spiders.

"I hate those damn things," I say with barely-concealed amusement – I really wanted to make her feel better. "Too many eyes, you know?"

Her expression is full of disgust as she looks up at me from the spider corpses, and I have a feeling she won't take the lead this time, so I go on ahead with a smile. We reach yet another clearing in the caverns, but it's not empty, and I catch Irma before she gains too much courage and goes storming in. "Hold up," I whisper, much to her confusion.

"More spiders?" she asks apprehensively, and I won't deny, she's sort of cute when she's scared.

"No. It's a bear, just ahead. See her?" There's really no need to point it out, but I do anyway; revealing the sleeping beast in the larger part of the cave. "I'd rather not tangle with her right now. Let's try to sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step." I pluck her axe from her belt, push it into her hand. "Go ahead," I urge. "I'll follow your lead and watch your back."

Determination sparks in her eyes, and she gives a firm nod before crossing over the stream, careful with her steps as she eases toward an abandoned cart. Quick to fall close behind her in case we get detected, we both sneak past the bear, and my heart stops for a moment when I hear a low growl – but it's just a yawn. We scurry into the tunnel and Irma breathes a sigh of relief, and I chuckle quietly, wiping away invisible sweat from my brow.

We proceed in through the tunnel, only to be greeted by slivers of light up ahead. "That looks like the way out," I say hopefully, and as if synchronised, we both pick up our pace, running toward it until a large opening appears, almost blinding us with outdoor light. "I knew we'd make it!" I can't help cheering, laughing as I breathed clean air for the first time since before the attack.

No sooner had I thought it did a very recognisable roar reverberate in the close distance. "Wait!" I pull Irma a little roughly into the brush, crawling behind a boulder as the black dragon finally appeared overhead, flying away from the town as if it had finished what it had set out to do. We emerge slowly, before finally relaxing once it was clear he wasn't coming back.

"There he goes," I mutter, frowning at the departing figure, a black shadow against the blue sky. "Looks like he's gone for good this time."

Irma's gaze is scanning our surroundings, and I know she's searching for any survivors who might've escaped this way.

"No way to know if anyone else made it out alive, but this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough." I cough and look away from the rising smoke billowing from Helgen. "We'd better clear out of here."

I know that in the aftermath of the disaster, it's easy for panic and despair to sink in, so I try to distract her from it – but when she looks back at me, she seems – well, not calm, but in the least she doesn't seem too heavily affected. Neither does she seem to be in any more a chatty mood than she'd been so far.

"My sister, Gerdur, she runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road," I offer, unsure what else to say. "I'm sure she'd help you out."

Her eyes are piercing, and yet, they're unreadable. Always unreadable. Maybe that's the reason for what I say next. "It's probably best if we split up."

For a moment, she doesn't react, but she seems to be thinking. Then she takes the axe from her side, holds it out to me – she wants to return it. I frown as I take it in my hand, but then I hand it back. "Keep it," I tell her. "It doesn't belong to me, and I want you to be safe."

Irma takes the axe back hesitantly, her gaze never dropping. Then she nods her head, her usual sign of gratitude, but just as she turns to depart, she stops and turns back. "Thanks," she says. "For saving me. And... good luck."

It immediately makes me feel a tinge of regret for suggesting splitting up, but I swallow that back. "Good luck to you too," I reply; "I wouldn't have made it without your help today."

I thought I saw the slightest twitch of her lips, maybe a smile, or maybe not.

And then she's gone. Again.

* * *

 **Follows and reviews are food for my soul.**


	3. CHAPTER 3: Abyss

**The adventure finally begins! Another thank you to those following the story, I hope the slow beginning hasn't dragged on too much. If you have any feedback, I would be happy to hear it through a review! Even if it's just a little bit of encouragement, it'd be lovely to know if anyone's enjoying it so far (or not?).**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:** _ **Abyss**_

 _I should be happy_ , I remind myself. _Or at least, I should be content._

What wasn't there to be grateful for? I evaded execution. I saved a not-so-fair maiden. I escaped Helgen's crumbling subterranean depths. I stood right in the face of death and practically backhanded it, Arkay be praised. And I now live to tell the tale.

And as I trudge down the grassy hills leading to Riverwood, there is no sign of the terrors that had only just befallen Helgen, almost as if the nightmare had ended and given way to reality. No, more like a pleasant dream. Here, the skies are clear, the birds are chirping, the river flows calm and serene. It's as if nothing ever happened, and if I didn't know any better, I might've believed that.

But I remember the sadness of Jorrgar's execution. The terror of those black wings. The mystery in Irma's gray eyes. And it's all too vivid to forget, even as Riverwood's sunny, friendly environment beckons me back to a life that once was mine. It tempts me to forget, but maybe I've simply seen too much too forget. Or done too much.

My mind is immediately guided back to Myrta, and I'm filled with a pang of guilt. I should've tried to help her, should've found a way to get her to the other side with us. Instead I had hurried away, too anxious to ensure Irma's and my own safety to risk consuming time to save another. Was saving Irma enough to atone for the fate I had been so quick to hand to Myrta? And _Irma_ , whom I had sent away on account of – what, exactly? Why had I sent her away, on her own, no less? Would that decision be another that I would eventually live to regret?

I should be happy, yet a pool of guilt and resentment simmer so hot in my gut that I barely notice the wolf that leaps into my path; barely even notice that I've buried my axe into its neck until blood sprays out onto my arm and stains the dirt in bright crimson. For a moment I'm stuck there, sitting on one knee as the blood spreads, only to be slowly soaked into the earth. _Dust to dust._

Death was a part of life, especially the life of a soldier. I knew that this pattern of thought was ridiculous – and dangerous – and it would bury me slowly in doubt and grief if I didn't put a quick end to it. The Stormcloaks vowed to be the saviours of Skyrim. Heroes. But what sort of hero left people behind?

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, push myself up off my knee and press on toward the familiar structures in the near distances. Maybe there wasn't anything else I could've done for those in Helgen, or maybe there had been. But I promised myself that from now on, I would not steer clear of those risks again.

Apprehension strings my muscles tight as I walk into town just as the sun starts to descend, and I decide the first person I'll seek out is my sister, who is mostly likely and very conveniently at the sawmill, out of the sight of the rest of the town. I have no idea if anyone has arrived here before me, and I'd rather not risk an encounter with any Imperials until I've regained my strength. As I hop onto the bridge to head toward the mill, however, I overhear old Hilde panicking, claiming to have seen a dragon as her son chided her. That's a little reassuring – at least it's almost certain no Imperials have arrived here yet bearing news. Or bounties.

The quiet of Riverwood along with its familiar sounds is a little more than just comforting. I find my previous worries dissipating as I pick up my pace to round the corner, and the moment I see that head of blonde hair I call out, running toward her. "Gerdur!"

Gerdur turns around in a flurry, her face filled with shock, worry, relief, and about a dozen other things which make me smile without realising it; make me remember how much I've missed her. "Brother!" she cries, meeting me halfway to embrace me tightly, and I think I hear the softest sob in her voice. "Mara's mercy, it's good to see you!"

"I'm so glad to see you, Gerdur –"

"But is it safe for you to be here?" she interrupts anxiously, pulling away with her hands still on my shoulders, gripping with a strength I would almost equal to my own. "We heard that Ulfric had been captured?"

"Gerdur –"

"Are you hurt? What's happened? You need to rest –"

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or heave a sigh. She'd always been like this, so protective and maternal, even before our mother had passed. "Gerdur I'm _fine_ ," I chuckle, lifting my hands to her shoulders, giving her little shake. "At least, now I am. But we really need to talk – somewhere private. News from Helgen won't take so long to reach the Imperials."

"Helgen?" Gerdur repeats, her brow creasing with a frown. "Why, what's happened – nevermind, you're right. Come with me." She cranes her neck to look at something over my shoulder and then yells – with the voice of a true Nord – " _Hod!_ " Her husband. "Come here a minute, I need your help with something."

"What is it, woman?" Hod yells back, and I turn to see where he is standing, atop the mill. "Sven drunk on the job again?"

" _Hod_ ," Gerdur enunciates with that very subtle yet severe warning in her tone, "just come here."

Hod finally notices me and is noticeably surprised. "Ralof!" he exclaims, "what are you doing here? Alright, alright, I'll be right down."

"Uncle Ralof!" The commotion draws little Frodnar out as well, who immediately runs over with an onslaught of questions – "Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?" – and though Gerdur scolds him and tells him to go watch the south road, I can't help smiling at my nephew, though it's almost bittersweet, seeing how big he's grown.

"Look at you," I chuckle, ruffling his hair and pushing it back out of his eyes, which are alight in happiness to be granted the attention. "Almost a grown man! Won't be very long before you'll be joining the fight yourself."

Frodnar agrees immediately, and Gerdur crosses her arms and shakes her head, though I see the smile on her lips as the boy promises to keep careful watch for anyone who would dare sneak up on me. I don't bother hiding the surge of pride I feel as I watch Frodnar hurry off in determined stride – definitely blood of my blood.

"Now, Ralof," Hod says when he finally joins us, wiping his hands on a rag. "What's going on? You look pretty well done in."

Gerdur offers the conversation to take place inside the house, over a hearty dinner and some mead, and that's when I tell them the full story – the ambush, the execution, the dragon attack, and then my escape with Irma. Both look thoroughly stunned as I recount the story, as well as a little unnerved when I describe the dragon encounter, but it doesn't stop Gerdur from raising an eyebrow at me when I mention Irma (maybe I'd said her name one too many times?), but I carefully avoid her gaze.

"I don't mean to put you in this position," I finally say, rubbing a hand roughly over my eyes, "but it's been such a long day and I can't remember the last time I slept –"

"Nonsense," Gerdur dismisses, her hands already opening the wardrobe to pull out a fresh set of sleeping clothes. "You stay here as long as you need to, take a nap now so you'll get your strength back. Hod and I will finish up work at the mill and I'll find someone to send word to Whiterun for reinforcements, in case that dragon comes here."

"Thanks sister," I say on a relieved sigh. "I knew I could count on you."

"I ought to get back to work before I'm missed," she says, "but...did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric..."

"Don't worry," I grin. "I'm sure he made it out. It would take more than a dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak."

"I hope that's true," she nods. "Very well brother, get some rest. I'll see you later."

* * *

When I wake up, I find Frodnar happily snoring beside me, sprawled out with a wooden sword still in his hand, and I chuckle softly, sitting up and off the bed carefully so as not to wake him up. I've overslept – even though by the look of the sky outside it's barely dawn – but I'd planned only to nap for a while before leaving. I feel a little guilty for having overcrowded Gerdur's house, so I get dressed and head over to the inn to break my fast, instead of taking any of the food from my sister's cupboards.

As I eat, however, one of the townsmen walks in, and I overhear him telling the innkeeper that Whiterun had already received word from someone about the dragon attack. My interest has been caught, and I turn in my seat. "So the jarl already knows about Helgen?" I ask, and the man nods once he's located me as the source of the question.

"Indeed," he says with a light scowl. "Talk about a pointless trip. I'm going to drink and sleep away the rest of the day to make up for it."

I shake my head with a smile, taking the last of my meal in hand as I leave, heading over to the trader for some supplies – namely, a helm; and maybe even a new weapon. Riverwood is safe now that Whiterun has sent guards on their way, so there's really nothing else left for me to do but start my journey to Windhelm and receive new orders. And hopefully, see that Ulfric has returned safely.

As I bargain for a better price on a battleaxe (with the argument that I am a man of Riverwood and therefore _deserve_ the discount), I'm interrupted by the entrance of another customer, who I briefly give an instinctive glance before turning back to Lucan – _w_ _ait_.

The second look brings me face-to-face with none other than Irma, and though my first urge is to greet her, I find myself utterly lost for words. It's undoubtedly Irma, even if she's almost unrecognisable now that she's washed up and dressed in new clothes – _armor_ , actually – and I... well, I can't stop staring at her.

Not that I had ever had any difficulty staring at her before, but – had she always looked like _this?_

"Welcome friend!" Lucan clearly has no qualms about greeting beautiful women as long as they're clients, as he urges her to browse the store's contents. She never takes her eyes off me however – and I won't say I'm not pleased, but I'm still in shock. I mean, I'd honestly never expected to see her again.

Much like me, she still sports some of the scratches and wounds from Helgen, but her skin is otherwise smooth and unmarked, golden like honey; and her hair, flowing long and silky but tied back by the braids woven through it, was a dark shade of blonde, or maybe a light shade of brown – and those _eyes_ again. Her eyes were gray and piercing, or maybe they were actually silver, or maybe I've just become the most inarticulate man in all of Skyrim and I can't even speak to this woman; let alone try to describe just how... _unreal_ she is.

" _Ahem_."

Both of us look at Lucan immediately when he clears his throat rather loudly, giving us an expectant look. "Are either of you going to buy something, or are you going to just stand there and stare at each other?"

"Ah – yes," I answer, rather distractedly, "I'll uh, take the battleaxe..." and upon looking over again I see Irma busying herself with browsing the store, though her shoulders are tense. I can't tell whether she's nervous or just plain unhappy to see me. I snap out of it, turn back to Lucan, intent on getting that price. "With the discount as I said."

"Fine, fine," he grumbles, handing the axe over once I'd provided the septims. "But don't get used to it!" Then he mutters under his breath; "I've been robbed enough already as it is."

I stop before turning away. "What do you mean?" I ask, frowning. I see Irma approach, her interest also piqued.

"Ah – nothing," Lucan quickly says, nervous. "I mean, we had a bit of a break-in – nothing major, of course, the store is still in business as usual!"

"Nothing?" another voice demands, and we both turn to look at the woman near the fireplace, who I recognise as his sister Camilla. She stands up indignantly. "It's not _nothing_ , Lucan. You might as well tell them, since you have no intention of doing anything about it yourself."

Lucan glares at her. "It's too dangerous!" he argues, sounding aggravated and definitely showing that it isn't the first time they've talked about this. "It's best we just forget about it."

"Well _someone_ has to do something."

"Do what?" Irma says suddenly, and all eyes are on her.

"A band of thieves stole a family heirloom," Camilla tells her quickly, as if she was afraid Lucan would dismiss the discussion. "A golden claw. It wasn't for sale, so I guess they decided to just make off with it. Last we heard of them, someone saw them headed up toward Bleak Falls Barrow."

I frown. Bleak Falls Barrow is infamous in Whiterun Hold, and no one dares even go near there, too afraid of the catacombs infested with restless undead. I remember the horror stories we were told as children of the draugr that would come down the mountain at night and to our windows when we slept if we weren't obedient – it was enough to make me listen to my parents' every word.

"I'm going there anyway. I'll get the claw for you."

Now hold on just a second." _What?_ " I demand, facing her and fixing her with a look that asked if she'd gone mad. She only glanced at me for a moment before her eyes were focused on Camilla again, who looked hopeful, to say the least. Not to mention her brother's own enthusiasm.

"Wh-what – you'd do that?" Lucan exclaims, as happy as if he'd just been offered the throne of the high king. "Why, that'd be wonderful. I'd pay you handsomely, of course –"

"No need," she interrupts. "I'll find it and bring it back to you, if you give me those two swords in exchange."

"Done and done," he answers, immediately taking the crossed swords propped up on wall display down, even sheathing them in scabbards before handing them over to Irma. I guess he _really_ wants that claw back. "Head over the bridge and up until you find a watchtower, once you get there you'll see the barrow. Be careful," he adds as Irma heads toward the door, though I'm certain his words are more out of concern for the return of his claw than her safety.

"Hey," I call as I follow her out of the store, but her pace is quick, and I match her speed to fall into step with her before blocking her path. "Hey! Wait a moment."

She exhales loudly, reluctantly stopping in her tracks, arms dropping to her sides in displeasure.

"I see you're very happy to see me," I state dryly.

"Look," Irma starts, sounding just a little apologetic, but maybe that's just me. "I already told you I was grateful that you saved my life in Helgen. And I'm glad to see you're well now, too. But now I really need to get going."

"Get going where?" I demand. "To Bleak Falls Barrow? Right into a tomb of walking corpses?"

"Must I grant you a full report of my plans and future whereabouts?" she counters in frustration.

"It's dangerous, and you shouldn't just go running into trouble without knowing what you're truly getting into." This makes her cross her arms. She knows I'm probably right. "After all," I continue, "didn't you only _just_ arrive in Skyrim a day ago?"

"I'm going to be fine," she tells me very matter-of-factly. "I've suffered this sort of thing before."

"Yeah, I know you have," I agree, though Helgen really was nothing compared to Bleak Falls Barrow. "Look, there will be frostbite spiders down there, and worse." My words have her tensing, I note with satisfaction. "If you're dead-set on walking into that pit of death, then at least let me come with you."

Her eyes, previously looking elsewhere as she stubbornly endured my reasoning, suddenly fixed on me with fiery resolve that caught me a little off-guard. " _No_."

"Why _not_."

"You're the one who suggested we split up in the first place."

 _Yeah, because I was being a traumatised idiot at the time_. "I wasn't thinking straight," I answer. "We work well together."

She's silent at this, and I can tell she's unsure how to respond. Maybe she agrees.

"What were you going up there for, anyway? Apart from Lucan's damned claw."

She surprises me with an immediate answer. "Dragonstone."

"Dragonstone?"

"The jarl's court wizard asked for it," she says. "He thinks it will reveal more about the dragon from Helgen." She frowns a little. "Maybe the return of all dragons."

I almost want to say that dragons are extinct, that they don't exist; but there isn't much argument one can provide after having seen a living dragon up close – _too_ close for comfort, in fact.

"Might be a heavy stone," I finally tell her, and she gives me a dry look. It doesn't shake my resolve, because the amusement at the corners of her lips is enough to urge me on. "Let me come with you," I try, one more time, just because she appears to be considering. "I'll help you find the claw _and_ the Dragonstone, and then I'll be off to Windhelm and you'll be on your own."

A long pause, and then Irma finally groans loudly, exaggeratedly; like she's making the ultimate self-sacrifice. I just grin.

"Fine," she concedes, and I stand out of her way, only to walk at her side as we head toward the bridge. "Since we're wasting time chatting _anyway_. But after this, we go our separate ways." She spares me a sideways look. "I don't need a knight."

"Never said you did."

"Then why do you insist on protecting me?"

"I'm not protecting you," I disagree. "I'm _helping_ you. There's a big difference."

I feel her eyes on me once more, as if she's analysing me, and I meet her gaze. Her lips twitch, and then she quickens her pace just that little bit to get ahead of me, breaking the contact. "Let's hurry. Sun's almost up."

* * *

I learn two things about Irma in the time it takes us to reach the watchtower. One: she's even more skilled in battle than I'd first thought she was. Second: she's even more socially-disclined than I'd first thought she was.

It's fortunate that she's able to hold her own so well or I'd be hauling her out of every sticky situation she gets us in and fighting her battles for her. As it goes, on our way up Irma first insists that we search for wherever the rising smoke nearby is coming from, which has us wandering off the path and into the woods. Here we encounter a pack of wolves, which we handle with enough ease, but then we come across the source of the smoke - a makeshift bandit camp. There are only two, but of course Irma wastes no time in engaging them in battle, and I have no choice but to join her.

Now don't get me wrong. Irma is an excellent fighter. Her main flaw?

She tends to throw herself into battle, chopping and slicing her way through her enemies. While she has good strength and great technique, her evasion is as good as nonexistent - to put it simply, she doesn't know when to step back and give her opponent some space to chase, and this leaves her absorbing a lot of heavy damage instead of simply taking a moment to dodge, or even run. It's a matter of experience, and while I know she has the talent and theory of it, it's clear she hasn't spent much time on the battlefield. It isn't a huge problem since there are two of us, but it makes me that much more aware of the fact that she shouldn't be traveling on her own. Not with the shoddy state Skyrim is currently in.

I crouch beside her as she sets down her knapsack, opening a chest and reaches inside to retrieve whatever items the bandits had hidden and stash them in the bag instead. I peer into her bag, finding it mostly full of healing remedies, which only further proves my point that she is all brutal force and no agility. Well, at least she's definitely a Nord.

"What do you even carry in this thing?" I mutter as I knock a potion out of the way to see what's buried under all those bottles, but she turns to give me a quick frown, pulling her bag from my reach to spill her newfound treasures into before buckling it up and replacing it on her back. She stands and starts marching back toward the path we'd been on, and I turn to follow with just a quick roll of my eyes.

The tower Lucan had told us about was finally in view, though barely visible in the heavy snowfall. It meant, however, that we were close to our destination.

"So, are you planning on silence for this entire trip?" The snow is hard to get a good foothold in, and both of us slip a few times here and there. Irma doesn't glance back, but I can just make out the huff she utters. "Because fighting together does require some communication, you know."

We reach a more level ground, and she peers at me through the falling snow, her brow drawn. "Talking is noise," she answers dryly, though her voice is raised a little to be heard over the wind. "Noise alerts enemies."

"Our enemies haven't really needed any alert," I retort, "you're good at seeking them out first."

Her nose wrinkles in displeasure, and she turns to continue up our trail wordlessly. I'm right behind her - smiling, of course.

We make our way up toward the tower, but I call out to Irma when we're a short but safe distance away. "Irma, wait."

She turns back, pulling her fur-lined hood further toward her face. Both of us wore fur, but I wish I hadn't underestimated just how cold it could get up here, especially when the wind was blowing so hard. "What?"

"I think I see people up there," I say, staring at the tower in careful watch of any movement. Guards were unlikely, since it was more of a ruin than anything, but I was hopeful. Bandits - more likely, but less liked. "Let's go this way. We don't need to get that close to it."

"What're you afraid of," Irma says confidently, continuing on up toward the tower. "Think we can't take them?"

"We can," I mutter, "I'd just prefer not to."

As expected, there are two bandits at the entrance of the tower, both of who are armed and have spotted us. "Stop right there if you know what's good for you!" the male yells, and Irma does stop. "You milk-drinkers better not come any closer."

A fair warning. We can just keep our distance and move along, no harm done.

"Or what?"

 _Damn it, Irma._

I start to reach for my battleaxe immediately, sensing things are going to get bad fast - but I didn't expect it to be that fast. Next thing I know, I'm kneeling on the ground, groaning in pain. _Great, there's a bloody arrow in my leg_.

Irma has her swords out but is staring back at me, looking rather horrified, but the male is running down toward her, ready to attack.

"Irma!" I shout, pointing behind her, and she turns around instantly, blocks the incoming blow though she stumbles back a little, then hits back. Both of her first swings are blocked, but then she starts to swing left and hits right instead, leaving the man's left side vulnerable to a deep slash right beneath the ribs, and he goes down with a howl.

She throws another quick glance at me, something akin to worry in her eyes, before she sprints up to the tower's entrance, where an archer quickly backs up in retreat as her range closes. I don't see what happens inside, but I know Irma will be the one to walk out.

Alright, she runs out instead. She slips a little as she rushes downhill toward me, sliding to a shaky stop next to me as she shrugs off her knapsack and flings it down onto the snow, fishing through for a healing potion. She's panicking, so I ease her nerves.

"Told you not to get close." Well, I can't let her off too easy.

"Shut up." Though her cheeks are flushed pink as she works quickly, never raising her eyes. She pulls a strip of leather from the bag, ties it tight around my leg, then - rather ruthlessly - yanks the arrow clean out. I grunt at the sharp pain, but say nothing else as she tips some of the liquid onto the wound, before attempting to shove the rest of it down my throat. I choke.

"Hey hey hey!" I splutter, grabbing the bottle from her. "I can do it."

"Sorry," she mumbles softly, and I look at her once I've swallowed down the entire bottle. Her expression is stubborn, but her voice is apologetic. I sigh, patting her wrist.

"Come on, let's move."

"Can you walk on it?" she asks, standing up and waiting for me to confirm whether or not I'm okay.

"Relax," I assure her, picking up her knapsack and hobbling slightly. "This is not the first time I've experienced this sort of thing. Pain should subside in a minute or two."

"Are you certain?" Maybe I should get injured more often, considering how much attention she's granting me.

"Yes, now come on, we're already tending to wounds and we haven't even reached the entrance of the barrow yet."

A nod and then she starts up the path, though I notice her steps are slow and her eyes flick a glance at my leg every now and then, and it's a both amusing and endearing; these short moments of concern despite her mostly indifferent attitude. My limp gradually disappears and the road becomes a much flatter and easier trek toward the grand structure ahead - the place they call Bleak Falls Barrow.

This time Irma waits before charging in, and when we do attack the bandits guarding the doors, its on my signal. We leave the ordeal panting though relatively unscathed, and as we finally stand at the doors of the sinister tomb, Irma looks over at me, and I give her a nod. "Ready?" I ask.

Her gloved hands each grip her swords tighter, and I see her swallow hard before nodding, her gaze determined when she turns to face the doors again. "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4: Sepulcher

**I've been very busy and kinda running on empty, but behold, chapter four.  
**

 **I took some liberties with this, since I think we can all agree that the Dragonborn probably does _not_ hear a choir of barbarian men singing the Song of the Dragonborn when they learn a word of power. Here is my take on the whole word wall and dragon soul thing, anyway.**

 **Once again, please do leave me a quick review if you are enjoying the story so far!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4:** _ **Sepulcher**_

After hours of inhaling the scents of blood and decay, I long for nothing more than I long for fresh air, even if it is the sharp cold wind of the mountain and snowflakes flying into my nostrils.

Both of us are covered in dust and a lot of other particles I don't want to think or get into detail about, though at least draugr have no blood to spill, which is a relief. The only blood we're covered with is our own – well, we do have some stains caused by frostbite spider remains, too, much to Irma's great disgust. She battles undead corpses like she's been doing it since she was three, but place a baby frostbite in her path and she'll hide behind me demanding I kill it. Almost as bad as Arvel.

Speaking of which. The group of bandits in the temple had spoken of a member of their group named Arvel, who had gone ahead with 'the claw'. Delving deeper into the barrow, we had come across a screaming dark elf caught in webbing, begging us to _kill it! Kill it! Kill it!_ – who promised to show us the claw and the secrets it could unlock if we would only free him from the web, despite Irma's insistence that we just slit his throat and get a move on. Of course, he'd made a run for it, but he didn't get far; leaving us to battle against a miniature army of rising draugr before we could finally take the claw from Arvel's dead body. I remember musing that he could've lived if he'd only worked with us instead of against us, and Irma had told me in less than elaborate words that I was a naive idiot.

The claw had been the key to a door which only led us deeper into the tomb, which made me somewhat uneasy, though not enough to suggest quitting while we were ahead and returning the claw. Draugr crowded the small enclosed spaces and passageways, and even with Irma's winning chop-and-hack method, fighting them off was increasingly difficult due to their sheer number and the exhaustion starting to set in. The smallest moment of hope had sparked when we'd found a snowy clearing, but there was no way out, and upon crossing the bridge we found ourselves closed in among dirt walls again. It seemed like we might never find the way out, let alone the Dragonstone.

I'm carrying a weak, threadbare sack bulging with various items on my back – the sack stolen from the bandits, the items plundered from every chest, urn and ancient storage spaces Irma could find – and I can see the strain on Irma's back with her own overstuffed knapsack, though she will clearly never admit it after I may or may not have called her a hoarder earlier on in our little journey.

A sharp hiss comes from behind me, and I pause, looking over my shoulder at Irma, who is frozen in a silent, attentive state. I focus on listening for whatever she'd heard – and then I hear it. "Running water," I whisper, and Irma's face floods with hopeful excitement, her lips curving just a little as she follows me deeper into the cave, our steps suddenly much quicker. The area is huge, we realise as we cross a vein of flowing water, bats screeching overhead as if protesting our invasion. A single sarcophagus sits at the top of the stairs ahead of us, surrounded by a huge ancient wall with strange engravings in it.

"This must be it," Irma whispers, heading toward the stairs, and my hands are already lifting the battleaxe from my back. If this experience has taught me anything, it's that valuable objects are almost always guarded.

"Be careful," I warn in a loud whisper, uneasy as she hurries up the steps and starts searching the area around the coffin. Nothing happens though, even as I stare at the coffin in anticipation of it bursting open any second; even as Irma tries to pry it open _herself_.

"It _has_ to be here," she mumbles, her arms falling to her sides as her shoulders slump. "Where else could it be?"

She sounds dejected, and I look up at the stairs ascending near the waterfall. "Maybe it's up that way," I suggest, though when I turn back to her, she's distracted, staring at the wall.

It's not really staring, though – she seems to be in a trance, more so by the second, and I frown as she approaches it slowly. I'm not sure what's got her so concentrated, but she looks as if she'd just seen Talos himself, the way her eyes never break away from the wall. My only concern right now is that ominous coffin and the stairway on our left, which has 'way out' practically written all over it.

"Irma, I think someone may have gotten that stone before us, we should probably just – "

"Do you hear that?"

I blink at her, and she turns her huge full-blown gray eyes on me, her mouth open in awe. I hear absolutely nothing.

"Hear what…?"

"Something like… whispers? Chanted whispers?"

With some great degree of apprehension I watch Irma step closer and closer to the wall, as if it were beckoning to her. I have a bad feeling, but that is probably to be expected when your companion starts showing signs of possible insanity. "Um. No. Irma… can we…"

Her fingers rise to rest upon a set of the foreign symbols etched all across the wall, and I still have a firm grip on my battleaxe as she speaks quietly – maybe she doesn't want to interrupt the voices in her head. "Force," she murmurs, and I feel my brow loosening up a little from its frown to make way for surprise – and confusion. Could she actually _read_ that?

A loud bang echoes in the space, accentuated by the cracking of stone and the light hiss of settling dust, and I know what that sound means. Irma turns around in synchronisation with me, both of us staring as something rises from the coffin – a draugr, but he's definitely a cut above the rest.

"This is your final stand, creature," I spit out.

This is it. I will kill this thing, end this misadventure, and escape this place. I need to return to Windhelm and rejoin my kinsmen in the fight for Skyrim. I am a Stormcloak, not a tomb raider, and yet here I am risking myself for a claw and an old rock. For the first time, I realise that chasing Irma into a mountain was probably among my dumber ideas, though it was typical if nothing else – pursuing some beautiful, wild thing into the bowels of the earth with no regard to my responsibilities or even my life. Yeah, typical.

Irma delivers the first blow to the animated corpse, and I follow through with an axe in the side. Yet somehow the draugr remains standing, even with the bloodless gash in his decayed body, and we need to make some retreat – I push Irma forcefully to make her back up, since I know from experience she won't do so herself.

"Get back!" I shout to Irma as I block the descent of an ancient greatsword in the draugr's hands. "Remember what I told you? Stay out of striking range. He doesn't bleed, but _we do_."

She looks as pleased with the plan as I expected her to, but even with the scowl she heeds my advice and runs to the short set of steps to the left as I distract the draugr in combat, though the heavy greatsword against my battleaxe is a pain. They're evenly matched but the weight of each blow back and forth doesn't allow me to strike anything but steel. This is until Irma, poised atop the coffin's edge, attacks; and sure enough, as I attack from the front and her swords slash mercilessly into the creature's back as it tries to decide who to attack, its stance is visibly weakening.

Yet even as he begins to falter, he makes one final effort to turn and swing at Irma, who just _barely_ dodges with a sharp arch backward, but the movement has her losing her balance, hitting the coffin's edge rather hard before falling down whatever height there was between the raised ground we stood upon and the one below.

I shout her name instinctively; and then, with anger overwhelming me, I swing my battleaxe as fast and hard as I can, plunging one of its blades into the draugr's stomach – or, what would have once been his stomach. He goes crumbling with an unnatural groan, and I immediately run to the steps, leap down to the ground and run around the elevated area to find Irma sprawled on the ground, attempting to get up, her gaze unfocused.

"Irma!" I shout a little too loudly as I lift her from the ground, supporting her back, but she pushes me away. I try again despite her refusal. "Stop that, we need to – "

"No," she croaks, pushing herself up a little to point desperately up at the coffin. "The stone… the _Dragonstone_ , it's in the coffin. Go get it… quick!"

For a moment I'm lost as to what I need to do, her words reaching my brain with a vast delay as my gaze focuses instead on checking her for any severe wounds, but she grabs my arm firmly and shakes it, which succeeds in gaining my attention. "The stone!" she cries, and I finally get up and return to the coffin, realising she must've seen it inside before tumbling over the edge.

It was an odd thing, hardly anything to go to all this trouble for, but I pick it up carefully nonetheless, though I do give it a firm shake first. I've had enough dead dust clinging to my skin for one day.

The stone goes into my sack, tucked safely among the softer materials we'd found, and I hurry back to Irma, who has managed to get herself sitting up; and I give her an affirmative nod. "We've got both the stone and claw," I say, "now please, let's get out of here."

Kneeling down on one knee to try to pick her up, she bats my efforts away, but she at least lets me act as the support as she pulls herself up onto her feet. When she comes close to falling again, she reluctantly clings to my arm as we head up the longer flight of steps, and I hope we don't encounter any other surprises up here, because I'm exhausted, Irma's sprained her ankle, and I'm certain I speak for her too when I say we both want to go home.

Sure enough, the evening sky glares at us from the opening of the final chamber, a grand reward for the arduous journey. Of course, our work doesn't end there – we are still a good height above ground and the road downhill is steep, and Irma refuses a healing potion.

"It's a _waste_ ," she tells me. "For what, a weak ankle? No, we've already had enough bottles shattered when I fell. I will walk it out."

"You won't be able to walk it out once we both lose our footing and break our legs on the way down – that being if we're lucky. Just take one damn sip or two, for the sake of my back."

A moment of consideration, and then she finally accepts with a sigh. Our descent is, needless to say, much less labour than it could've been, and I'm grateful. Speaking of grateful –

"Hey," Irma says suddenly, breaking the silence that has dominated the fifteen or twenty minutes spent walking back toward Riverwood. "I'm really… I'm just… thankful for your help today." Her gaze averts when I look over at her, and she clears her throat briefly. "Really. I may have found the claw and stone on my own, but… I'm not so certain I'd have made it out alive. So… thank you."

Well, it's safe to say my previous qualm about following her into Bleak Falls Barrow has just completely dissipated.

"What was all the admiration of that wall about?" I ask lightly, though it's still a little unnerving when I remember how she'd seemed to lose herself in the engraved text. "Were you truly able to understand that writing?"

Irma is silent, and for a moment I worry I might have upset her, or worse, she'd experienced something terrible; but she eventually speaks again. "I couldn't understand any of it," she says softly, her eyebrows drawn and eyes narrowed at the path ahead, as if trying to remember. "But I could hear – no –"

She stops, a frustrated little exhale coming from her before she looks at me, attempting to explain. "I heard the word," she continues, "I didn't understand at first, especially when you couldn't hear it, but then I realised I was not hearing with my ears. It was as if it was spoken straight to my soul. Among these strange chants in a foreign language, I heard a single word – _force_ ; one of the words on the wall, and I understood it. I knew how to read it, and I knew what it meant – instantly."

I keep my eyes trained on the road, because otherwise I would be staring at her like she'd grown an extra head. I mean, how could I respond to that? She had been given the understanding of an ancient inscription from some mysterious force, which only she could hear, and with her _soul_ , no less.

"Do you think," I begin, still uneasy with the idea (but definitely feeling much better than before); "that it has something to do with the Dragonstone?"

Irma considers this, clearly having not thought of that idea yet. "You may be right," she muses. "Whatever it is, I'm certain Farengar will have the answers."

I'm not sure what it is, but even after we cross the bridge, even after we return the claw and sell the treasures we'd carried, and even after I pass the Dragonstone to Irma, she never tells me goodbye.

And honestly, if she's simply forgotten about my promise to let her go her own way after we obtained the Dragonstone, I'm content to lay it to rest.

* * *

"It's a map."

"Well _obviously_ it's a map. But what destinations does it mark?"

"Maybe that writing on the back explains it."

"I think this is _dovahzul_."

"Dragon language?" I muse, rubbing my nose for the hundredth time, feeling it still clogged with dust. "Would make sense, considering it _is_ called the Dragonstone."

Irma turned the stone in her hands, flipping it to show the map once again. It was a map of Skyrim, with markings of several mysterious locations. "Maybe I could've learned more from that wall, had you not rushed me out of there."

"Learn what?" I snort, shaking my head. "How to sprain another ankle? Awaken a few more dead guardians?"

"Hey, watch it," she warns, "I don't even know why you're still here."

"Because I keep you alive."

"Right. By playing it safe."

"What happened to the ever-so-grateful lass I met an hour ago? And anyway, if you think you could've learned more from that writing on the wall, how come you aren't hearing any whispers from the writing on this stone?"

"Alright, listen," she says with finality in her voice, stopping in her stride to look at me. "I did not ask you to accompany me. Why don't you just go back to Windhelm and join your raincloaks?"

" _Stormcloaks_ ," I amend with a huff, "And I will. As soon as I see you gain safe passage back to Whiterun."

"Well, there it is," she gestures to the rise of peaked rooftops in the distance, the grand sweep of her arm somewhat sarcastic. "You've kept me safe. Thank you. Now feel free to be gone."

Despite the situation, I begin to smile. "Won't be that easy to get rid of me," I assure her, resuming my walk much to her chagrin.

The rest of the trip to Whiterun is quick now that we aren't speaking, and our pace is considerably faster, probably due to the inflamed tempers we had each lit. As we walk through the city gates, however, the sounds and scents of the evening Whiterun bring about a good, easy feeling, and my mood immediately shifts for the better. Whiterun had always been among the best cities in Skyrim – if not _the_ best; possessing that warm, friendly environment that could easily make any man desire to call the city home.

"How did you even gain an audience with the Jarl?" I finally ask Irma, breaking the silence as we ascend the steps toward Dragonsreach. "What did you do after we parted ways at Helgen?"

"I went straight to Whiterun," she answers simply, "gained entrance into the city by telling them I'd escaped a dragon attack at Helgen, and they directed me toward the palace."

"So you were the one who got reinforcements to Riverwood?" I realise belatedly.

"It wasn't my original intention," she replies honestly, "but yes, reinforcements were sent after I told them my story."

"And then you met the court wizard..."

"Who sent me on a death mission after a Dragonstone."

We step through the doors of Dragonsreach, and Irma makes haste to walk toward the throne as I stare after her. Adventure seems to follow her everywhere – or maybe it's just danger.

The throne is empty. The jarl has probably retired to his chambers for the evening, but there aren't many others around, either. However, Irma makes a detour straight into a chamber on the right, which is where I glimpse a figure in robes – court wizard, I'm guessing. Irma stops at the doorway, and while I want to tell her to go ahead and interrupt since we clearly have important reason to do so, she seems to be intent on listening to a conversation happening inside.

"Time is running, Farengar," a female voice says, "don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back."

"Yes, yes," the court wizard, Farengar, dismisses. "Don't worry. Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable..." He moves to retrieve something else, and I see the woman he is talking to now, clad in leather armor but hooded – somewhat suspiciously. "Now, let me show you something else I found... very intriguing... I think your employers –"

He finally notices Irma, stopping mid-sentence, and his face changes from concentrated to excited. "Ah, yes, the Jarl's protege!" he exclaims, abandoning his desk to meet us as we walk into the room. "Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems. And you arrive with a friend, too?"

She ignores him as she places her knapsack down, opens it, and pulls out the stone, presenting it. "This stone bears many questions."

"Ah!" he cries, excitement no longer enough to describe his glee. "The Dragonstone!"

"You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?" the strange woman suddenly says, her hood still low and her posture still slouched, but noticeably interested. "Nice work."

"Indeed," Farengar regards the woman with a nod, "seems your information was correct after all." He turns to Irma, still beaming. "You are clearly a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

The wizard makes to take the stone, but Irma is reluctant to put it within his reach just yet, a frown on her face. "I want to know what it is," she tells him firmly. "What does the map mean, and the text?" She looks over Farengar's shoulder at the hooded woman. "And what do _you_ want with it?"

I place a hand on her shoulder, and she looks back at me with a frown, though no anger in her expression. "Let him have the stone," I advise gently, and she turns back to Farengar slowly, hesitantly handing over the stone tablet. I clear my throat. "I believe that, being the ones who retrieved it, we do have some right to know what that Dragonstone means."

"Of course, and I understand your curiosity," the man says gently, "but I'm afraid I have no information to give, at least not until I've had time to study."

"Are the inscriptions on the back written in dragon language?" I ask.

"They are," he confirms, "but of course, the text is lost on me until I manage to translate it. My associate here has also been assisting me in this research – once I find some answers, I will impart them with you both."

"Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it," the woman says, and though I can't see my companion's face, I'm certain she's looking at the other woman with the same suspicion that I'm feeling, though she doesn't voice it.

"Very well," Irma finally complies. "So then, what happens now that you have the stone?"

"That is where your job ends and mine begins. The work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim. Certainly, you may return at any time, if you wish to learn more of my progress with –"

" _Farengar!_ "

The loud shout startles us all, even the hooded woman, and we turn to see an armor-clad dunmer rushing in, pushing past us to reach the wizard.

"Irileth, what is it?"

"Farengar, you need to come at _once_ ," she says quickly, urgency in her tone. "A dragon's been sighted nearby."

Irma gives me a look, which I return – shock, confusion... and the tiniest measure of anticipation. The dunmer – Irileth – then turns her focus on us, glancing between us before nodding. "You both should come, too."

"A dragon!" the wizard exclaims, his animated demeanour taking over once more. "How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you," Irileth reprimands as we follow her out of the wizard's study and up the stairs to the right in a hurry. "If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun I don't know if we can stop it."

Balgruuf the Greater, the jarl of Whiterun, is in the room upstairs, speaking to a guard, who looks like he's just seen a ghost. "It was just circling overhead when I left," he's saying, panting like he'd run a mile. "I never ran so fast in my life...I thought it would come after me for sure."

"Good work, son," the jarl tells him. "We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." He turns to us, his kind expression growing more severe as he addresses the matter at hand. "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."

"Good, don't fail me. And you..." He's looking at us, and seems to be questioning my presence with his gaze, though before I can introduce myself, Irma beats me to it.

"He survived Helgen, and helped me retrieve the Dragonstone."

"Ah yes, the one who helped you escape – Ralof, is it?"

 _Wait – he already knows of me?_ I find myself speechless before the jarl, and Irma is unwilling to meet my gaze, so I stand there stunned until I finally stutter a weak – "Uh, yes, my lord."

"Very well," Balgruuf nods. "There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friends. I need you both to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. I will reward you both for your service in bringing us the Dragonstone after you return from the watchtower."

This is our cue to leave, as Farengar expresses his hopeful wish to come along and see the dragon, too. We leave our belongings in the wizard's chamber, taking only our blades, as well as our bows and arrows.

"What a curious thing," I mutter as if deep in thought, and I can practically sense Irma's tension from here as we head down the steps from the palace toward the main gate. "The jarl knowing who I am, just like that –"

"Alright so I mentioned you," she interrupts snappily. "So what? Save your arrogance for the battle ahead."

My victory lingers as a smirk on my lips, though I make sure to match Irma's pace as we leave the city and head down the path toward the stables. "You really think we'll encounter this dragon tonight?"

"I have a strong feeling that we will, considering our luck with dragons so far, but at least we won't be trapped in a burning town without weapons this time."

"Positive thinking," I say, my speech broken a little by the exertion of my running. "Well, if the dragon does come to meet us, maybe you can reason with him, now that you know some of his language."

Irma glares at me, and I can't help grinning. Then she chuckles, and that _really_ catches me off-guard. "If I'm lucky, this dragon will eat you before I defeat it."

I run a hand through my hair to push it back, my grin still plastered on my face. "If I'm lucky, maybe I'll defeat him for you and then you'll have no choice but to admit I'm your hero."

We come to a jog and then stop by the rocks near the watchtower, waiting for Irileth and the guards to catch up. We inspect the nearby ruin – flames, smoke and dust. Nothing seems to be moving, neither dragon nor man.

"I don't see anyone around," I murmur, and Irma crouches back down next to me.

"Or any _thing_ ," she says, and I realise we're both whispering. "What could that dragon possibly want with a watchtower?"

"Do you think it was the same one from Helgen?"

"Doubt it... that woman with Farengar, she said _dragons_ are coming back. I think there are a lot more than just two."

"You two, get up and stop dallying."

It's Irileth, and Irma stands up to meet her first, though I remain close to the floor, cleaning the blades of my axe of the built-up blood and dirt.

"No movement so far," Irma informs her. "No people, no dragon either."

"But it sure looks like he's been here," Irileth says, before turning to the guards, expression steeled. "I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere." She draws her weapon, and I stand up with my axe along with everyone else. "Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

I start to head toward the tower, and I catch up to fall into step with Irma. "Stop dallying," I imitate Irileth quietly, complete with the accent, and she looks amused, much to my pleasure. She looks like she's about to say something, but then I get knocked backward, barely keeping my footing as I find myself face-to-face with a guard, looking very much like the one back in Dragonsreach.

"Kinsman," I start to say, "are you –"

"No!" he cries, stepping back before running around me, "get back! It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

Looking over at Irma, we agree on an unspoken plan before sprinting up the path to the tower, knowing we'll get a better view to watch for the dragon at the top of the tower, but we barely even get to the doorway before a loud roar stops us in our tracks.

"Kynareth save us," a guard shudders as he crouches nearby, "here he comes again..."

We run back the way we'd come, opting for even ground as the dragon unleashed his fire once more over the tower. I realise a battleaxe won't do me much good when I see the giant beast fly overhead, and I swap it for a bow quickly, drawing an arrow back with a shaky arm but completely missing. Nearby, I see Irma taking position behind a target practice board as she fired her arrows at the creature and I grunted at my own hesitance. Was I afraid? I'd survived a dragon before – I'd do it again.

"Come down here and fight, you coward!" Irileth yells. "Find cover and make every arrow count!"

Her shouting is somewhat inspirational, and I see the frightened guards start to regroup and ready themselves after hearing her courageous words. I join some of them as they moved to hide, and I find Irma there, too.

"Look at its back!" she yelled over the chaos, and I was surprised at the attention the guards paid her – she seemed to exude an odd sense of authority, as if she was a dragonslayer with years of experience. "Your arrows won't pierce its scales. Aim for the belly and for its wings if you can – we need to force it to the ground!"

With their 'orders' received, the guards spread out in the courtyard once more, aiming, drawing and firing at the dragon; and sure enough, the arrows which made their mark in the dragon's underside and wings visibly affected it much more than those which almost bounced off its scales.

"Irma!" I call as we meet in the middle of the yard, and she glances at me quickly before turning her eyes onto the skies again. "We need higher ground."

She considers my words, and then points at the raised pathway. "There," she replies, "he always dips lower over that section to breathe fire into the yard. Come with me."

We run toward the steps, hurrying to get to the top before the dragon's flight brings him to the spot. We both draw our strings back, aiming at an empty sky, but soon enough the dragon appears from behind the tower, flying close, and we fire straight up into its belly as he flies over us, and he roars angrily.

"He's coming back this way!" I yell, watching the dragon change direction to return to us.

"His wings! Aim for his wings – on my mark!"

As he approaches, I draw the arrow back, steadying my breathing and concentrating. I know that he's coming for us, and that as soon as I fire that arrow, I need to jump off the wall and onto the ground behind it if I want to avoid the scorching rain of flames that was about to be served onto us.

" _Now!_ "

The arrows fly, and I grab Irma's arm and pull her as I leap over the edge, tumbling to the ground and rolling toward the edge of the wall just as fire consumes the bridgewalk. And sure enough, just as the dragon flies overhead, he lets out a loud, pained groan and comes crashing down to the ground, his wings failing – but he's not down yet. I watch in terror as he awkwardly crawls toward us with little grace, but before I can react, Irma is on her feet and unsheathing her blades, meeting the dragon head-on.

"No! _Irma!_ " My protests do nothing as she battles the dragon – slashing, stabbing _and_ evading, and I stand up to run toward her, about to yell at her to move aside when the creature shows the familiar signs of preparation to breathe fire –

But she leaps _forward_ , lands on its head, and drives both her swords straight down into the dragon's skull. The dragon lets out a thundering cry before it collapses into a lifeless heap, Irma tumbling off its head and rising to her feet, panting. And then, as if the day hadn't been strange enough, something... _extraordinary_ happened.

The dragon _fades_ as if melting, as if life was physically leaving its body in fiery wisps, flowing away in the air – and straight into Irma.

"What's happening?" a guard cries behind me.

"Stay back, everyone!" Irileth yells.

Panicked, I can't back away, but neither can I go to her, to try move her away from whatever was happening; my feet unmoving. I'm left staring as she glows with the golden aura before the darkness of the night shrouds everything in black once more, no proof of what just happened remaining except for the bare skeleton of the dragon, lying behind a silent and deathly-still Irma.

I begin to say her name, but it fades away into a whisper, and I have no other words. The guards approach, standing next to me in mixed shock and awe, and for a moment I think I may have been dreaming, but then Irma turns around, unreadable silver eyes gazing over each of us before stopping on me, and my breath catches. Something just happened to her, something important. Something what had happened at the wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. One of the guards finally dares to step forward, but his expression isn't one of fear – it's one of... hope?

"I can't believe it... you're... you're _Dragonborn!_ "

What.

"Dragonborn?" Irma finally asks, her gaze moving to the man who'd spoken, her voice soft and uncertain.

"In the very oldest tales," the guard explains, "back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"

She swallows. "I felt a surge of power but – I don't know, I don't know what happened."

"There's only one way to find out – try to Shout. That would prove it. According to the old legends, the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do."

"What in Talos' name are you talking about, Sjoran?" another guard scoffs. "Dragons and Dragonborns?"

"That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

"I've never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons," a third guard says, and the one named Sjoran shakes his head with a withering look.

"That's because there weren't any dragons then, idiot. They're just coming back now for the first time in...forever."

The second guard pauses, before looking at Irma. "If you really are Dragonborn," he says, "like out of the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

There's silence. No one moves, and I can't tell what she's thinking, but just as I'm about to speak up, she opens her mouth and shouts a word, a foreign word which echoes loud, throws us back in a gust of wind... a sudden, powerful _force_.

 _The word from the wall_. _She understood it because she was..._

"Dragonborn," I whisper in awe.

By the Nine – I think my life just became a whole lot more complicated.

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	5. Chapter 5: Destiny

**Thank you so much for the reviews! They honestly made my entire week. A special thanks to woofy78 for the especially detailed comments! They gave me life, I kid you not.**

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 **CHAPTER 5:** _ **Destiny**_

Needless to say, the presentation of the Dragonborn is a massive success.

The guards, thoroughly convinced after almost being thrown back onto their rears by Irma's shout, praise her and eagerly seek her conversation, Irileth has vocally and visibly displayed how much of a nuisance she finds the fantastical stories and claims of Irma being some sort of magical saviour, and I…

Well, I'm still standing here, watching it all happen in front of me. I am a little stunned, a little confused, a little overwhelmed, but I am mostly astonished – though I suppose I have been in a perpetual state of astonishment ever since I'd met this mystifying woman, and the feeling is nothing foreign to me.

But Irma is neither proud, nor annoyed, nor amazed. She is – well, as usual, I'm not sure _what_ she's feeling or thinking; but I recognise the expression on her face as the same one she'd worn on the day of the Helgen attack, when I'd questioned her on her fighting skill.

"Oh settle down, the lot of you," Irileth scolds, shooing away the guards. "Go and keep watch, clean up, do _something_ useful and give the girl some space to breathe."

Irileth faces Irma, her face softening a little in – dare I suggest it – possible respect. "I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you're with us," she tells the blonde. "We're going to stick around and clean up this mess, but you should get back to Whiterun, let the jarl know what happened here."

Whether it's because she has nothing to say or because she has no words at all, Irma just nods in understanding, turning away to walk toward me, where I've been waiting for her.

This changes everything. I knew the myths and stories about the Dragonborn well, and I knew that the destiny laid out before her was not an easy one to traverse. While I'd chosen to travel with her and help her of my own accord, I had done so for my own reasons, and the duration of my affiliation has always been obviously temporary. But now, I was not just deciding whether to follow a pretty girl, a talented combatant, or an intriguing enigma; I was deciding whether or not to follow the Dragonborn. And my choice had never been clearer.

Lowering myself down upon one knee, my battleaxe rests horizontally on both my upturned palms as I lift it before her and bow my head. "Dragonborn," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady and strong. "I pledge my service to you. If it please you, I would go with you, protect you, and assist you in any way I can. Would you accept?"

I half-expect her to scoff and pass me by. I can probably expect to be mocked or scolded, but none of those come to pass. Lifting my head to look up at her, I see her still, silent, her face blank and guarded, but her normally-unreadable eyes lost, confused, frightened as they stare down at me.

"Irma?"

Her lips part, as if to speak, but then she closes her mouth again. She looks like she doesn't know what to say, though I think that's understandable given recent events.

"Nightfall is upon us," she finally says, her voice strained and her mouth tight. "We should get to the Jarl and tell him what happened here."

I wasn't sure if the 'we' meant she accepted my offer or not, but I suppose the fact that she still wanted me to come with her was enough for me, for the time being. I needed to get my stuff from Farengar's laboratory, anyway.

I rise, standing on both feet once more, and she's looking out toward Whiterun. The air is chilly and gray clouds cut through the dark sky, a sign of imminent bad weather, so I gesture for her to go ahead and lead the way to Whiterun that we might arrive before a storm hits.

"Are you afraid?"

Irma looks at me immediately, her lips parting briefly, and it's only then that I recall asking her that same question in Helgen. How strange things had become in such a short time.

"I'm..." she pauses, and then starts again, as if changing her mind about what answer she would give. "I'm not fine. But I will be."

I have yet to see her like this, and immediately I am filled with the urge to reassure her, to tell her of the strength she has; the strength that makes her more than capable. That this fate was not given to her without reason. That the gods must've also seen in her what I did.

"I meant what I said," I tell her, and she swallows, avoiding my gaze. "I will be at your side if you should need me."

"You said so yourself, you must get to Windhelm soon." She glances at me. "So I relieve my knight of his duty."

That makes me smile despite the situation, and surprisingly enough, her own lips twist in the very slightest measure, before she turns her head, watching the path ahead of her.

Just as we're about to reach the stables, however, a loud chorus of voices rumble through the valley, even shaking the ground beneath our feet, and both of us are left frozen in step, looking around before looking at each other. Irma is staring at me expectantly.

"You heard that, right?" Irma asks tentatively, and I let out a nervous, humourless chuckle.

"Heard it and felt it, too. Was that…?"

" _Dovahkiin_ ," Irma utters the word, and even I've read enough books to know what it means. "But who…"

It was the same word the dragon had cried when Irma had slain it. 'Dragonborn'. This time it didn't sound hostile, but I figure we both know better than to go chasing it into the mountains – if we could even figure out where it'd come from.

"Let's get to Dragonsreach," I say. "Surely Farengar the wise would know something about this."

Our speed is notably faster than it had been as we rush through the streets, the houses' windows candlelit yet the townspeople are outside, murmuring and chattering nervously among each other about the shout from the mountains.

By the time we arrive at Dragonsreach, the discussion has already begun.

"You heard the summons," the Jarl was saying. "What else could it mean? The Greybeards..."

The words make us pause on the stairs, and Irma throws me a look. I nod at her, and instead of heading toward Farengar's study, we go to the throne instead, where Balgruuf, his brother and his steward are debating something, stopping once we approach.

"You're back! So, what happened? Was the dragon there?"

"The watchtower is in ruin," I say, noticing Irma's reluctance to speak. "But the dragon is dead."

"I knew you would succeed," the Jarl answers with relief in his voice, though I detect the tension he'd had in his voice while talking about the 'summons'. "But... did anything else happen...?"

Irma and I exchange glances, before I clear my throat, ready to speak of something utterly strange. "As the dragon was slain... Irma seemed to absorb some sort of energy from it. We all saw it. The guards called her _Dragonborn_."

The Jarl looks at his brother, who seems to affirm whatever suspicion he has. "Then it's true," Jarl Balgruuf murmurs, sounding amazed. "The Greybeards were summoning you."

"The Greybeards?" Irma repeats, frowning. "Of High Hrothgar? What do they want with me?"

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," I say, slowly remembering the old legends. "The _dovahzul_. Remember the stories of Talos being called by the Greybeards?"

Irma's eyebrows, previously drawn tight across her brow, now lift in interest. "Yes," she murmurs, "I remember. He was proclaimed Dragonborn at High Hrothgar."

"That's right," the Jarl nods. "The Greybeards will likely want to find out whether you are truly the Dragonborn, as they did back then. It is said that the Dragonborn is uniquely gifted in 'the Voice', the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um – or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

"But to what end?" Irma asks.

"Who knows," the jarl's brother muses – his name escapes me. "But that thundering sound you heard as you returned to Whiterun – that was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in... centuries, at least." He looks at me then, realisation on his face. "In fact, I believe not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora, as you said!"

"Hrongar, calm yourself," the steward scolds. "What does all this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here?"

"Hey!"

"Watch what you're saying."

" _Nord nonsense?_ " the brother, Hrongar, exclaims; to add to our trio of protests. "Why you puffed-up ignorant –" He stops himself, growling in disapproval. "These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire."

" _Hrongar_ ," the Jarl chuckles, "my friends. Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

For a moment I feel a little silly getting so fired up over the discussion, but it's rare nowadays to praise the legend of Talos openly without glancing over your shoulder in the meantime.

"I meant no disrespect, of course," the steward assures, though he doesn't sound that sorry. "It's just that – what do these Greybeards want with her?"

The Jarl crosses his arms, deep in thought. "That's the Greybeards' business, not ours."

He stands up, looking at Irma, who looks a little overwhelmed, but I'm glad to see that the anxiety from the watchtower has mostly dissipated, leaving something akin to anticipation, instead. _What an honour it must be_ ,I think, _to walk in the footsteps of Tiber Septim_.

"Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue?"

Irma nods in agreement to Balgruuf's words, although her facial expression says that she might've had a mind to argue.

"I envy you, you know. To climb the 7,000 Steps again..." He sounds nostalgic as he speaks. "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." He sighs, before taking his place once more upon the throne. "No matter," he concludes. "You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honour. Go and learn what they can teach you."

I think Irma might be speechless, either out of nervousness or being deep in thought. I follow her as she leaves the throne with a bow of her head, and it's only once we're retrieving our belongings that I speak up. "Do you plan on travelling soon?" I inquire carefully.

Irma pauses to glance at me in surprise. "I suppose... yes, I suppose the sooner the better. After all, you heard what Jarl Balgruuf said."

I nod, though I'm somewhat disappointed, somewhat worried. I would've liked to head to Windhelm first, report in and then join Irma in her trek after I'd resolved whatever matters the Stormcloaks had going, but she obviously wasn't planning on waiting that long. Of course, I could just go with her and postpone the trip to Windhelm a little longer. No one would judge me for assisting the Dragonborn, would they?

"I'll come with you," I tell her, standing up with my things in tow.

She stands up as well, shaking her head as she hoists her knapsack onto her back. "You must go to Windhelm," she says, "and I must do this alone. The Greybeards summoned me, and I do not want to risk finding out that they did not want me to invite my friends. After all, you've delayed that trip long enough."

"You call me your friend, then?" This is a pleasant surprise, and she reddens immediately, clearly not having wanted to use those words.

"Clearly it's time to part ways."

I laugh, and we head outside, down the steps of Dragonsreach. "We'll meet again, won't we?"

"Probably won't have much choice," Irma answers, and I appreciate the optimism.

"I will be in Riverwood if the Stormcloaks aren't planning any major activities anytime soon," I tell her, though I can't say I believe she would visit me. "Drop by if you're ever in town."

Her gaze is fixed toward the mountains, and she exhales softly. "I will have to see what path the Greybeards send me on," she says, before glancing at me. "Which town is the closest to the 7,000 Steps?"

"That would be Ivarstead. I believe being situated at the base of the Throat of the World is their main feature."

She nods, and when we reach the stables, she stops, turning to face me. "Take the carriage," she says. "It'll be faster, and safer."

"Shor's blood; you worrying about me already?"

"I'm _serious_."

I grin. "You just focus on worrying about _yourself_ right now. I'll be fine, but you've got a big job ahead of you. Pick up some warmer clothes from Riverwood on your way around; it's cold up there." I pause. "And make sure you stay safe. Send word, if you can."

She makes no such promise, but her expression softens, just a tiny little bit. "You take care of yourself too, Ralof," she says, voice gentle. "Talos guide you."

It's only when she's no longer in view that I finally jump in the carriage, Windhelm-bound.

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 **This one was a bit short, but the next one will be longer and more fun, I promise! In the meantime, please drop a review if you can :)**


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